“The sort of chaplain I mean,” said Black—with a biting sense of injury at his heart—“does bear arms. He does go to the front. He never stays in safe places if he can by any chance get out of them. Will you please—take that back? I don’t think I can bear it—from you.”
She looked up at him again, and again he looked down at her. She saw the pain in his eyes, saw the virility in his lean, strong face, the way his jaw set and his lips compressed themselves in the line that speaks determination, and was ashamed—and convinced.
“I take it back,” she said. “You couldn’t be anything but a fighting man wherever they put you. I ought to know, by the way you have fought for my brother. Forgive me.”
He was silent for a minute. Then he said slowly: “The next time you come on a list of citations for distinguished bravery, over there, would you mind reading it carefully? And when you come to a chaplain’s name, notice what he did to deserve it. That’s all I ask.”
“I’m sorry,” Jane said softly. “I suppose I don’t know the facts.”
“I imagine you don’t, Miss Ray.”
“You’re still angry with me. I can’t blame you.”
“I’m not angry. But I do care that the splendid fellows over there who wear the cross on the collar of their tunic should never be spoken of as if they were looking for safe places. If I can take my place among them I’ll want no higher honour—and no more dangerous work than they take upon themselves.”
Jane’s fingers laid hold of the fold of his coat-sleeve again. She bit her lip. Then she said gently:
“I asked to be forgiven. Isn’t it a part of your office to forgive the repentant?”